Old Broken Heart
by screennameless
Summary: "If you ever call yourself old again, I will break your arm." "300..." "Break. Your. Arm." Now with -extremely depressing- follow-up.
1. Part I

250 gazed wearily at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. With a sigh, he prodded the weathered lines in his face with a finger, his eyes drifting to his receding hairline. His graying hairline.

He thunked his forehead against the mirror and sighed again. God, he felt so old. He was still muscular, still in shape, but fatigue seemed to settle further in his bones during every idle moment. When he called for his body to work, it worked, but how much longer would that last? Every step was a chance for some joint to creak, every stretch a chance to agitate a scar. Today he was being plagued by a mild headache that made him dizzy when he turned too fast and heartburn turning his chest into a pressure cooker. Tomorrow it could be arthritis or something worse for all he knew.

With a final, heavy sigh, he shuffled out of the bathroom and down the stairs. 300 was already awake, seated on the sofa with his usual newspaper. The question was out before 250 could consider its consequences:

"Does it ever bother you?"

Glancing up from his newspaper, 300 cast a curious look in the direction of his partner. "What?"

250 ran a hand through his fading hair. "That I'm, y'know..."

300 stared at him in utter confusion, trying to finish the sentence. After a long minute, he wrinkled his brow and ventured, "...Gay?"

"No!" 250 said, giving him an incredulous look. "Old."

300 blinked. "What?"

Rubbing the cross-shaped scar on his left cheek, 250 sagged onto the couch beside his partner and sighed again. Fatigue washed through him. His headache only seemed to worsen as he sat down, and sweat began to dampen his shirt. "I mean, you're in still in your thirties, and I'm nearing fifty..."

300's appalled expression silenced him. "I am in my late thirties. You are in your mid forties. Hardly cradle-robbing."

"But-"

"No." 300 snapped his newspaper shut and dropped it on the coffee table. "For the last time, the only way I'm leaving you is if you kick me out." At his partner's downcast expression, 300 exhaled and clasped one of 250's hands in both of his own. "Honestly, how are you still so insecure about this?"

"I just..." 300 raised his eyebrows, and 250 finished quietly, "I just want you to be happy."

The sentence settled on the air. 250 sat hunched over his knees, his right hand still clasped in 300's, his left still rubbing the scar. 300 frowned. Freeing one of his hands, he pinned 250's shoulder against the back of the couch and straddled his lap. 250's eyes widened as 300 seized his face and pressed a determined kiss to his lips.

"300?" he panted.

"Shut up," the Scot replied, reaching for his belt.

250 would've been happy to comply, but the worsening light-headedness and the growing pressure in his chest didn't feel like symptoms of joy. He clenched his fists and felt the sweat dripping from his palms. He gasped in another breath. "300, something's wrong."

He registered his partner looking at him in confusion before his vision went black.

**- -**NIELS & GANG**- -**

250 awoke in yet another hospital bed, his left hand once again trapped in someone's grasp. His eyes slowly opened to find 300 seated beside the bed, clutching his hand tightly. The Scot had laid his head on 250's stomach. His eyes were lowered, deep in thought, as they focused on the left side of 250's chest. The silence hung over them thickly. "...Hey," 250 attempted.

300 made no effort to answer or even to move. Narrowing his eyes, he continued his stare-off with his partner's heart, his grip on the man's hand tightening.

250 tried again. "300?"

"Never do that again."

300's words were low, firm, and directed at 250's chest. The American furrowed his brow. "What?"

The Scot's eyes flicked toward 250's face. He squeezed his hand even harder. "If you ever call yourself old again, I will break your arm."

250 looked at his partner, still slumped over his stomach with his hand in a death grip. The shadows under 300's eyes tugged at him, and he squeezed back, letting an amused smile stretch his face. "Is that your favorite threat?"

"Yes." 300 lowered his eyes back to 250's chest. "Now promise."

250 watched the Scot, who remained unmoving, waiting for an answer. When the American finally spoke, his voice was rueful, even a little admonishing. "300, you can't stop a heart attack."

300's grip managed to tighten even further. "If you say one word about heart attacks, I will break your arm."

"300..."

"Break. Your. Arm."

250 could feel his partner trembling through the hospital bed. Shifting slightly, he stretched his other arm to clasp 300's hands in both of his own.

"All right. I promise."

300 made no attempt to answer. His eyes stared in the direction of 250's errant heart, but they were unfocused, lost in thought.

"300?" 250 tried.

"We're getting married."

250 blinked. "What?"

300's eyes refocused, sliding to look at 250's face. "I am going to marry you."

250 stared back at his partner blankly. "...Is that even legal in this state?"

"I don't care."

250 blinked one last time, and that seemed to settle matters for him. He squeezed 300's hands. "Okay then."

A small smile curved 300's mouth, and they sat there in companionable silence. 250 gazed at his partner, who still laid across his stomach, refusing to let go of his hands. A quiet joy tugged at his old heart.

"So," he grinned, "do I have to end up in the hospital every time I want you to upgrade our relationship?"

In a flash, 300 was on top of the hospital bed, 250's face in his hands. "Don't joke like that." He pressed a fierce kiss to his lips. "Don't even joke like that."

* * *

_D'aww._

_250 is so insecure. I imagine that the age difference, however small, would come up at some point or another._

_Originally this was going to be longer and more tragic (and, if the title wasn't a clue, it would have involved Niels being a troll), but I chickened out. All that sad stuff is a continuation of this, though (as opposed to a change to this), so maybe I'll write up an angst-filled sequel another time._

_According to Wikipedia, typically if a victim of a heart attack falls unconscious, they are dead. End of story. But blacking out for a scene cut is more dramatic than, "Okay, I'll call the hospital."_

_And no, I don't know why I always start my 250x300 fics with the same exact setting._

_Let me know what you think and, as always, thanks for reading._


	2. Part II

As it turns out, the next time 250 ends up in the hospital, there's no relationship upgrade.

They all agree to skip the formalities and jump straight to the burial. Irene and Britney were essentially the only family he had left, and Thomas the only friend. There would be no one to offer condolences or send flowers or file past the casket. No need to compound their suffering with a few painful eulogies to an empty room.

And so the graveside service is a small affair, closed casket. It's not that the second heart attack left physical trauma; honestly, 300 just couldn't bear to look at him, and at some point Irene and Britney had quietly ceded all control in the decision-making process.

It is, of course, sunny - a mild 72 degrees Fahrenheit, complete with oblivious songbirds trilling in the oak trees tastefully scattered throughout the cemetery. 300 stands by the headstone, a shiny black hunk of granite paid for by the Agency, and stares unseeing at the edge of the pit. His hands are clasped in front of him, white-knuckled, tight around the ring that is not his own.

Opposite him, Irene lowers her head, eyes closed in silent prayer. Tears rivulet down her face, plip-plipping to the earth, but she herself makes no sound. Thomas has a tight arm around her shoulders, his eyes solemnly locked on the flag-draped casket before him. Together they are statuesque, mutely fortified against the storm.

Britney, meanwhile, sob-hic-sniffles through the entire ceremony, half-drowning out the Christian rites and military rituals. Nobody comments. Half her world has been shattered. 300, at least, can understand the sentiment.

When the coffin is lowered, 300 does not cry. He does not speak. He has no reaction at all. When he reaches inward, feeling around for that little lead-lined box he likes to stuff his emotions into, he finds a nuclear blast crater, scarred and hollow. As an agent, he knows the body biochemically numbs itself to pain it can't handle. He suspects that this might be occurring.

Some ceremonial dirt is sprinkled onto the casket, and it's over. The sun shines down relentlessly, the birds whistle in ignorance, and 300 stands oaken, rooted by the headstone, staring down, down, down. The gravedigger loiters at the edge of his vision, a gnat with a shovel.

Irene reverently steps around the gaping hole and wraps 300 in a too-tight hug. She squeezes fiercely, her tears dampening his suit jacket, and the physical pain of her embrace is almost refreshing. Ever the mother, she smoothes down his jacket sleeves with a feeble smile when she steps away.

"Are you holding up alright?" she asks.

To his infinite shock, it is Britney who saves him. "Oh my God, _Mom_." The girl grabs 300's still-clasped hands and squeezes in an echo of her mother. "I'm sorry, George."

He blinks at her, this foreign creature wearing his rival's body. It occurs to him for the first time that they are no longer rivals. His words falter and die in his throat.

There is an uncomfortably long silence as they watch him, concerned. Finally 300 manages a stiff nod and sort of bobs their conjoined hands, and that satisfies Britney. She squeezes once more before letting go.

He keeps his hands clasped, the ring digging moon-shaped scars into his palms.

Irene steps forward demurely, offering a sad, sheepish smile. "I'm sorry, George," she echoes. "I wasn't thinking." She hugs him again, but he is incapable of returning the gesture. "Please know we're here for you," she murmurs into his shoulder.

The gravedigger hefts the shovel in 300's peripheral.

Irene steps away, and it is Thomas's turn. But the detective looks at his fiancée and her daughter. "Irene, can you give us a minute?" he asks.

300 looks up, blinking, as Irene hesitates, nods, and ushers Britney to the car. Watching with narrowed eyes, Thomas waits until they are well out of earshot before turning back toward the agent. He steps forward and lays a hand on 300's shoulder, his voice emerging low. "300, what are you going to do about Niels?"

300 stares at him. Slowly, a shadow of a smile darkens his face. He looks down into the grave at his feet. "I... don't know."

Thomas allows him a minute of silence. When he speaks again, his tone is almost parental. "Niels will never, ever let it go."

"...I know." 300 gazes at the smattering of dirt on the coffin. "But now... if he so much as mentions..." He can't bring himself to mention it. He stares down into the grave helplessly.

Thomas gives the agent a quiet look. "You'd just shoot him," he murmurs.

300's hands squeeze the ring. "I'd just shoot him."

There is another respectful silence as Thomas considers that statement. Finally, the detective sighs and scratches the back of his head. "Well, to be honest, the only way I can think of to get out completely is moving out of the country. And I don't know if even _that_would protect you."

His smile is a broken thing. "I wouldn't worry, Thomas. I think it's well past time Niels learnt how it feels to have a few of his toys taken away."

**- -NIELS & GANG- -**

When Niels finally walks through the door of his suit shop over a decade later, 300 is only surprised that it took him so long.

The bell jingles to herald his arrival, and the Dane steps inside, pausing in the entry. "Well," he says, looking around at the dark oak paneling that serves as a backdrop for the crisply tailored clothing. "This is quaint."

Sighing, 300 expertly folds a shirt and fwumps it on the counter by the register. "Mr. Gyldensted."

That perverse smile curls its way across Niels's face. He trails a finger along the outline of a mannequin and steps forward from the doorway. "You didn't give me much of a chance in your game, 300." He rubs a pair of slacks between his fingers, pretending to study the thread count. "Moving Thomas, Irene, and the girls into Witsec? Hardly playing fair."

300 fwaps a pair of pants into a crisply folded box and drops it on the stack. "I couldn't very well entrust them to your care, now could I?"

Niels has progressed to the center of the shop, skimming his fingertips over the jackets, the waistcoats, the shirts and ties and pants, even the edges of the display tables. "You wound me, 300," he says, and moves to step up to the counter.

300 grabs the pistol one-handed from his lap drawer and trains it on Niels's face without looking. The Dane stops short, raising his eyebrows. "You're not my job anymore, Mr. Gyldensted," 300 cautions, still focused on the product he needs to prepare for display.

"True enough," Niels concedes, but that smile serpentines across his face in 300's peripheral vision. "So you're simply a man who'll be convicted for murder one."

"Murder two," 300 corrects, selecting another shirt from the pile. "And you'd be surprised how far an agent's benefits extend into retirement."

They stand there in tense silence, Niels watching 300, who continues to fold his merchandise with his left hand, the gun unwavering. The Dane's smirk flickers, first with mild irritation, then with sly knowledge as he spots the ring on a simple chain around 300's neck, the second gold band on his finger. "I warned him, you know," Niels adds conversationally, his eyes narrow, his smile devious.

300 fwumps another shirt onto the pile. "Hm?"

"That all he'd get from you would be an old, broken-"

The bullet skims Niels's right temple and slams into the breast pocket of a mannequin on the opposite side of the store. 300's ringed hand keeps folding of its own accord, his eyes still trained on the clothes, the gun his only acknowledgement of the Dane's presence. "I know which is your good eye, Gyldensted," he comments, dropping another shirt on the stack.

A single drop of blood trickles down Niels's carefully composed face. The Dane raises his eyebrows again. "You can't just walk out of the game, 300."

Heaving another sigh, 300 fwumps the final piece of clothing on the counter to fold. "Mr. Gyldensted, believe it or not, the world does not exist to entertain you. Nor do I." He drops the last shirt into its stack and finally looks up at the Dane over the sights of his gun. "Now get out of my store."

And whether it's respect or boredom that makes up his mind, Niels smiles and raises both hands in surrender. He turns and ambles toward the front, weaving through the racks and displays, and pauses as he wraps his hand around the doorknob.

"You know," he says, glancing back over his shoulder, "Flyover Country, USA isn't exactly the ideal place to open a men's formalwear shop."

The door closes, and 300 has to smile, the ring on his neck a reassurance. "I'd say it's a worthwhile endeavor."

* * *

_Remember that longer and more tragic version I mentioned? The one that involved Niels being a troll? Say hi, everybody._

_I prefer it separated like this, actually. Now you can choose on your own whether you want to have your soul crushed with poor 300 or not._

_I'm actually very pleased with this one overall. I like how it references the other stories I've written for the agents. Not to mention that I particularly love some of the lines (I should write a "fave lines" journal...)._

_As an aside: Someone who's already had a heart attack is much more likely to have another._

_Let me know what you think and, as always, thanks for reading._


End file.
